Lost, but free

I am quiet. The idea of having a conversation with someone, with anyone for that matter, isn’t completely lifeless, but I don’t feel like having one. I don’t want to breathe life into it and give it some bloody hopes and make it fly high. And it hurts to see that people are judged by others all the time on what they do with themselves, not on how they feel. There’s this invisible blanket over you for everyone else that hides your feelings from them, or is it the fact that they are just too blind to see? I bet you know the answer. I wonder when lust grabs us by our balls, where does that blanket go? But I am just quiet. Observing things that others are doing around me. Observing.

Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. Quiet and honest. An accurate description of me at the moment. What’s my profound truth? Fuck if I know. I can’t tell one. There are quite a few, and the problem with all of them is they all take a piss at you at the same time and makes your mind go in circles for hours, even days. And then you can only hope to get out of that shit hole. Hope is a bad thing. It means you are not what you want to be. It means that part of you is dead, if not all of you. It means that you entertain illusions. People ask you, what do you want to be son? And before you answer that centuries old question, those heartless impostors give their valuable advice that you never asked for. Thank you for asking the question in first place, you herd of dejected limps. That invaluable advice. No, they don’t want you to wander alone.

“To wander farther was to wander alone. To rely wholly upon oneself.”

So no one’s reading literature today, huh? A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words in our literature, which the wisest men of antiquity has occurred, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of – and yet we learn as far as to read easy readings. Time to stop masturbating on our lives and focus on something important, eh? When I think of it, of all the advice I’ve got in past, I can stamp it all with my ass and mail it to i-reject-it-respectfully street of some city with buildings touching the skies of nowhere and people with morals as low as hanging breasts of an antique whore you keep on an exhibition in a museum.

She was an artist once, now she is art. She went through a world-evolution which is endless. It turned her inside out, voyaging through God knows how many dimensions, to discover herself, only to find out that the story she had to tell was not that important as her telling itself. This is what gives her the metaphysical hue, which lifts it out of time and space and centers it to the whole cosmic process. This makes her therapeutic. Those people, not so much. They don’t think in cosmological terms. It is only possible way to think if one is truly alive. They care about figures and are sucked into a statistical black hole. And then they hope. Absurd.

Then some of us write. A child has no need to write. He is innocent. We write to throw off the poison which we have accumulated because of the false way of life. Every man is working out his destiny in his own way and nobody can be of help except by being kind, generous, and patient. We write to overcome the world, and thus finding it. For we must not only be in it and above it, but of it too.To love for what it is. How difficult is that? And yet, it’s the first and only task. Evade it, and you are lost. Lose yourself in it and you are free.

I was there


I guess that’s what keeps us alive.

I was breathing. Actually breathing. My heart beat was faster than ever. I can’t remember when was the last time I felt like that. Even while writing this, it’s still not in my control. Its still fast. I feel alive. Resurrected. When I was standing in the middle, that’s when it struck me. Its a lake. I don’t know how to swim. I really don’t like chilly water. No one does. No, that’s not how I want to die. I haven’t thought about it, but not like that. That’ll be lame. When all these reasoning strikes you at the same time, that’s when shit gets real. Its been over 40 degrees for last 4 days. That was the icing on the cake.

But the thing is, I can’t run away now. I’m here. There’s nothing I can do about it now. All I could feel was the instant rush in my breath. An exciting one. A bit of insecurity. My mind asking me, why would you ever do something like that? But my heart replying, because that’s what you live for. For moments like these. I felt my heart rate calming down. Should I go further? Why not. And I walked. And I kept walking. And few seconds later, I looked back. I could still point out my bike, but anyone would’ve easily stolen it easily at that point. There’s no way I would have caught him.

I looked around. That was it. I’ve made it to the middle of the lake. A sense of accomplishment. The sun shone behind me, with the rays giving me a pat on the back. But I realized something. Happiness is real only when shared. I wanted to yell. I wanted to scream. I don’t do this everyday. I wanted to jump like crazy. Probably not a good idea given the situation. But I didn’t. I kept all of it inside me hidden somewhere. There was no one to share it with. But I headed back, slowly, still filled with some accomplishment. After touching my bike again, I felt a bit of relief. I did it. Yes. I looked back. There was no one. Just the frozen lake and sunlight reflecting from it.

I was there.

They Were All Yellow

Me-> eating, Friend 1 and Friend 2 -> talking

Friend 1: I listen to Indie, most of the times.

Friend 2: Me too! Isn’t it the best? Especially Indie Rock.

Friend 1: I agree. But sometimes, I feel like closing my eyes and losing myself to Indie Pop.

Friend 2: That’s such a great feeling. Always better than Alternative. Don’t know what happened to Alt-rock.

Me: Wait, isn’t that the same thing? Indie and Alternative?

Everyone I know in the whole universe: ARE YOU MAD? THEY ARE SO DIFFERENT.

Me: Huh, okay. (back to eating)

Few days later,

Me: (still wondering) Are they really different?

(looks around, no one answered)

Me: Alright, let’s find out.

I Googled. I learned. I conquered. And now, I’ll tell you.

Question: What’s the difference between Western and Country music?

Answer: None.

It feels a little like that being billed as a guide to Alternative and Indie music. Yes, both kinds. The seeming interchangeability of those two words —which, at root, stand more for vague ideals and beliefs than any kind of specific style— may have you wondering something.

So what do you even mean by those 2 terms?

The basic rule of thumb used to be that the difference was only about location. Alternative was the preferred American term, Indie came straight from the British isles. Yes, indie is, at heart, the English expression. In the UK, indie started out, simply, as the trade term for records released on independent record-labels.

In America, indie often means twee, meek, Anglophilic; and it always means retrophonic. To be indie is to do so without distortion, without aggression.

Yet, back in England, birthplace of the word, ‘indie’ has come to mean something else entirely. No longer a term used, often proudly, to describe bands with down-to-earth attitude and do-it-yourself beliefs, indie has come to be shorthand for a most dire form of non-rock.

In Britain, these days indie is routinely used as a catch-all to describe an ever-growing succession of impossibly bland, laddish bands playing inoffensive, melancholy ballad-rock. No wonder Dave Grohl doesn’t like Coldplay. I think being “indie” these days gives you more room for experimentation with your music, which I seriously wish was happening instead of the mellow music and lets-be-safe-and-not-offend-anyone lyrics. Though there are some bands which are actually making good use of this newly-found freedom, and in case if you’re looking for one, check out these lads, The Blue Dawns. Alternative, on the other side, is what’s rock and roll used to be for people back in good old guitar rambling days. It’s still great.

So, yes, there is a distinction between ‘Alternative’ and ‘Indie,’ and now that you know, you too can use each judiciously. As for the differences between indie, indie-pop, and indie-rock, well, um, you’ll just have to use your imagination. Because there aren’t any, really.

Let me leave you with this Alex Turner quote which he said after winning Brit’s award, and don’t you dare tell me he can be wrong, because he isn’t. This is coming from a man who understands that rock’n’roll isn’t about an antiquated idea of “guitar music”, or about any level of genre elitism, but spirit and ethos, excitement and unpredictability.

“That rock’n’roll, eh? That rock’n’roll, it just won’t go away. It might hibernate from time to time, sink back into the swamp… but it’s always waiting there, just around the corner, ready to make its way back through the sludge. Rock’n’roll will never die. And there’s nothing that you can do about it.”

This is everything that rock’n’roll is meant to be: unpredictable, dumb, funny, exciting and attention-grabbing.

Rock’n’Roll, eh?